


Overheated

by teand



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, F/M, between S3 & S4 BTVS, pre series Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-02
Updated: 2012-04-02
Packaged: 2017-11-02 22:56:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teand/pseuds/teand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe she's a better actress than he's giving her credit for because there's nothing but superficial when she rolls her eyes and says, "Please, do I look like the kind of girl who goes into the sewers?"  If he'd been standing any closer, she'd have run over his foot as she gunned it out of the parking lot...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overheated

**Author's Note:**

> First posted in Lj July 15th, 2007

**\- Southern California, July 1999 -**

The first thing he notices are her breasts. Call him shallow but a nice rack is going to catch his attention. Were she standing, Dean suspects he'd notice her ass next but since she's sitting on it, he moves on to the fact that she's yelling at her car.

"Do not do this to me! I set you free so you totally owe me; the least you can do is start!"

She's talking to the car as though she expects it to understand her. The car itself, a 1997 Chrysler Cirrus LXi , 4 door, is nothing much – he reaches down and pats the glossy black fender he's leaning against – but he likes that she has a personal relationship with it.

"I'll make a deal with you," he hears her snarl. "You start and I won't have you turned into whatever it is they turn cars into that don't start!"

It doesn't start.

Dean pushes himself off the Impala and heads across the parking lot. He isn't expected back at the motel for another two days – he has plenty of time for knight errantry. And it's a very nice rack.

"Can I help?"

She jumps and jerks around toward him. Her hair and her eyes are the same rich brown and she has the kind of California tan that suggests she's spent a lot of time lounging around by her daddy's pool. He wastes a few minutes wondering about tan lines as she looks him up and down before she curls her lip and says, "Are you a mechanic?"

"I know my way around cars." He drops his voice and adds a bit of eyebrow action; tossing in the innuendo mostly just to see if she picks up on it and when she narrows her eyes at him -- two vertical lines appearing between dark brows which reminds him weirdly of Sammy – he adds, "Pop the hood and let me have a look."

"You're not from the IRS are you? Because this was my car, my father gave it to me and you had no right to take so I was really only reclaiming my property."

"Do I look like I'm from the IRS?" He spreads his hands. His faded blue t-shirt is clean but he knows the blood stain from that black dog he took out back in Nebraska is never coming out of his jeans.

"Oh sure, you may look all rough around the edges but they're sneaky."

Dean grins at the emphasis. Another day it might piss him off but did he mention the nice rack? "I'm not from the IRS."

She stares at him for another long moment and he has the strangest feeling that she's more than deciding if his working class hands can touch her car, she's actually threat accessing. Finally, she rolls her eyes, reaches down for the hood release and says, "Don't try anything."

It doesn't take him long to discover the problem. "Your alternator's over-heated."

"So fix it."

"Can't be fixed, it'll have to be replaced." When Dean looks around the hood, she's wearing a strained expression he recognizes. The one that says rent or groceries but not both. Not an expression he ever expected to see on a southern California sun princess' face. And then he remembers she as much as told him she'd stolen her car back from the IRS. Looks and larceny. He might be in love. "As soon as it cools down, your car'll start but you're going to have the same problem every time you turn off the engine."

She looks back along the highway. It's empty – north and south – asphalt shimmering in the afternoon heat. When she looks back at Dean, he's fairly certain that it's not only the IRS she's worried about. "How long before it cools down?"

"Half an hour." The sun's hot on his shoulders and he can feel the thin fabric sticking to the center of his back. "Maybe longer."

"Oh that's just great." Somehow, she makes it sound like it's his fault. Then she gets out of the car and he doesn't much care. She's in flip flops and shorts and there's about a mile of bare, tanned legs in between. Her tank top hugs all the right places and he thinks he could probably span her waist with his hands.

"You have a name?" he asks.

Her smile is mostly teeth. "Yes," she says, and walks away.

Her ass is everything he knew it would be and she knows he's looking at it. Girls like this, they always know. Hell, it's pretty much their job to know. She stops in the patch of shade thrown by the line of scrub oaks on the side of the parking lot and drops down onto the brown grass. He should just get in his car and drive away.

Instead, he buys two cokes from the gas station's ancient cooler and joins her.

"Dean Winchester," he says as he sits beside her.

She takes the dripping bottle like she'd been expecting it. "Cordelia Chase."

She says her name like he should recognize it but he's paying too much attention to a drop of water rolling along the toned, tanned curve of her thigh to care about the affectation.

"I'm on my way to LA," she adds and then when he does nothing more than nod, drops the final bit of information. "I'm an actress."

Dean lets his appreciation show. Well, as much appreciation as won't get him slapped. "I should have known."

And she's off. He's not really listening, letting the lies about agents and auditions and promised parts roll off him – she's not that good an actress -- concentrating on the slender fingers wrapped around the bottle, the lighter skin on the inside of her arm as she raises the drink to her mouth, and the way her tongue flicks out to lick an errant drop from her lower lip.

When she finally acknowledges his attention, and raises an imperious brow, he tips back his head and takes a long swallow, well aware of the sweat running down his neck, and exactly how tight his shirt is.

"Wow. You really know how to work that pose."

The coke out the nose is less than sexy but when he finally stops coughing he doesn't bother denying the charge because Cordelia's dark eyes are sparkling and there's a deep dimple beside the wide mouth he's finding mesmerizing.

"Atta boy. I knew you'd look at my face eventually."

The protest is instinctive. "I wasn't..."

"You totally were. But that's okay." She's sitting cross-legged now, head cocked, as she studies him. She frowns at an old bite mark on his arm. "So, where are you heading Dean Winchester?" Once again she surprises him because it sounds like she really wants to know and, honestly, he didn't think she was the type to care about anyone other than herself.

He considers lying but there's no real reason for it and the truth is easier to remember. "Heading north to Sunnydale." When her brows go up, he adds, "Picking up some supplies for the family business."

Her gaze tracks down to the stain on his jeans and he'd bet actual cash that she recognizes it. He expects her to ask what kind of business but she doesn't. Instead she twists around to look north, up the highway, then glances down at her watch. "It's been nearly a half an hour. Do you think my car will start now?"

For the sake of the rack and the legs and the ass, and yeah, the dimple, Dean wants to say no. Wants to suggest he drive her back down the road to the last decent sized town, where they can get something to eat in air conditioned comfort. He can almost feel the warm, yielding weight of her breasts in his hands – if he puts his mind to it, second base at least is a given and no matter what his increasingly obnoxious little brother seems to think it's not always about a quick fuck. But he's seen glimpses of more than just pretty and superficial and that Cordelia Chase he finds he doesn't want to lie to. So he stands. "Only one way to find out," he says, and holds out his hand.

Her grip is surprisingly strong. They end up standing close; close enough for him to feel the heat coming off her body, to inhale the scent of clean hair, to notice the edge of the purple and green bruise just visible at the edge of her tank top.

She follows his gaze and her mouth twists into something that's not quite a smile and almost familiar. "Graduation," she snorts.

"A lot of competition for those diplomas?"

She pulls her hand from his and backs up a step. "You have no idea. I didn't even actually get mine; it got lost in the fire."

"Fire?"

"Long story. And I'd like to get to LA while I'm still distractingly luminescent."

Nothing Dean can do but follow her to her car. He watches as she unlocks the door. "We were fifteen feet away."

"You can never be too careful."

And there's another long story there, he suspects. Then he grins. "The windows were down."

Cordelia rolls her eyes at him as she slides into the driver's seat. "So the car didn't heat up. Duh."

Before he can point out the problem, she slips the key in the ignition and turns it. To Dean's experienced ear, the starter sounds a little resentful but the engine turns over and settles down to an essentially smooth idle.

"So..." She stares up at him and, just for a moment, looks so lost he steps forward and closes both hands around the edge of the door. "...I guess I'll be off to LA then."

"I guess." He thinks about bending down and kissing her. He's almost sure she wouldn't mind but there's also the niggling suspicion that if she did mind she'd just drive off leaving him dangling out her window by the lips. Not something he wants to risk.

"You need to let go."

"Right." He backs up and returns the smile she flashes him as she puts the car in gear and steps on the gas.

The Ciirus jerks forward about three feet and stops.

"Hey, Dean!" She's frowning when he draws even with the window again. "Look, when you get to Sunnydale, you might not want to go out after, you know, dark."

It's almost more of a challenge than a warning and she's obviously expecting questions she has no intention of answering so he only nods and says, "When you get to LA, you might want to stay out of the sewers."

Surprise. Something that might be acknowledgement carefully masked and maybe she's a better actress than he's giving her credit for because there's nothing but superficial when she rolls her eyes and says, "Please, do I look like the kind of girl who goes into the sewers?"

One hand braced against the top of the door, he grins in at her. "Please, do I look like the kind of guy who's afraid of the dark?"

She stares at him for a long moment and he'd trade a kidney – well, maybe one of Sammy's – to know why her smile is so sad. "No," she says at last. "You don't." Her fingers are cool on the back of his hand.

He turns his hand over, lifts her fingers to his mouth, and says, "Go be a star, Cordelia Chase."

The dimple reappears as she pulls her hand away. "Like I need your permission. I owe you a coke so, look me up if you ever come to LA."

"And how will I find you?"

This smile is dazzling. "Check the billboards over Sunset Boulevard!"

If he'd been standing any closer, she'd have run over his foot as she gunned it out of the parking lot and he's fairly sure she's flipped off the speed limit before she's actually on the highway. He's almost certain she's going to forget the alternator problem the next time she stops and he hopes she makes it to LA before the IRS catches up.

The whole star thing? Well, he has no doubt about that. The whole more than she seems, hidden depths aside, it's a _really_ nice rack...


End file.
